


Tea Parties on the Ceiling

by Valkirin



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Children, Children With Terminal Illnesses, Gen, Terminal Illnesses, make-a-wish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-31 16:30:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8585716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valkirin/pseuds/Valkirin
Summary: A little girl in Hell’s Kitchen wants to meet the (vigilante) Devil. Hell’s Kitchen likes a hometown girl with a dream.
“But tea parties on the ceiling? I ask you. Having tea parties on  the ceiling and highly-questionable outings of every other kind!”  –Mr. Banks, Mary Poppins





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on John Cena being an amazing Wish-ee as shown [here](http://greaterpawv.wish.org/wishes/wish-stories/celebrity-wishes/tea-for-two%20) and a kinkmeme prompt [over here](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/8423.html?thread=16466151#cmt16466151%20). 
> 
> DIPG (diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma) is a nasty and fatal cancer that slowly takes over the part of the brain that controls breathing and other baseline functions. It’s awful and terrible and my favorite professor’s son died at four years old. After I wrote this story, my friend’s child was diagnosed. Make-A-Wish is an absolutely amazing charity and after what they arranged for someone here I have no doubt they could win against Matthew Stubborn Michael Murdock.

“Claire…” 

She nodded in response to the half-whined protest, recognizing that tone perfectly well. She was a nurse after all. Nurses knew when they would win if they pushed their luck just a little farther, whether that meant a cranky dementia patient actually putting on their pants or a fussy vigilante staying in his seat instead of parkouring out her window. 

“Remember, she’s eight years old and has brain cancer,” Claire continued. “She doesn’t keep your usual hours. Hopping onto the fire escape would probably make her day, though.” 

“Claire.” 

“One of her remaining days, since, you know, DIPG is fatal.” 

“… Fine.” 

\-- 

In the usual chatter of Hell’s Kitchen, several very enthusiastic volunteers were making it their priority to make sure Gemma’s Wish was one of the most discussed topics. Foggy said that you couldn’t go in a coffee shop without passing one or two flyers on the bulletin board. Karen cooed over the girl’s crayon portrait printed next to a Bulletin article and joined the horde of adults adding even more flyers around Hell’s Kitchen, all of which were apparently brightly colored and stuck on nearly every crosswalk post. Matt couldn’t walk half a block without hearing the fluttering of new posters struggling against tape.

“They tried to talk to the Avengers’ charity liaison, but he said that the Avengers have never had contact information for the Devil,” Karen said. The newspaper open over her desk crinkled every time she moved. Matt had the sinking feeling that the neat stack of papers and roll of tape she had set down with determined thuds before opening her newspaper was an even larger stack of flyers than she’d had the day before. “How do people usually get in contact with him, anyway? Just luck?” 

Foggy was standing behind Karen, probably also reading the second Bulletin article in two days because Matt was not having a good week. “Not like he has a Batsignal,” he said. Foggy sounded like he was thinking over the weaknesses of particularly annoying opposing counsel. That tone never boded well for opposing counsel and probably wasn’t all that great for a vigilante.

Matt gave up on pretense and left from where he had been in his office (hiding) attempting to work on something productive for keeping the firm’s lights on (not that he needed the lights). He had to stop this before Karen decided that a giant spotlight pointing toward clouds was just what the city needed. The way that his week had been going, they would do it, and not responding to a light pointed at the sky would be the only way to look worse. “Has anyone asked Mahoney?”

“He’s quoted,” Karen said, tapping the paper. He could hear her grin in the next words. “Apparently a lot of people keep calling and asking him if he’s had any contact lately. The station is about to bring someone on staff just to handle calls about her, since Gemma’s mom is a detective there. Her gofundme page is in great shape, though.” 

Gemma Carmichael’s mother was also a very outspoken detective that he recognized from previous quotes to the Bulletin about the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen being an unhinged menace making a cops’ lives worse instead of better. 

“You’d think he would notice the flyers,” Foggy said, reaching under the newspaper and grabbing a flyer to hand to Matt. Worse, Foggy tapped the back of his hand first, then waited patiently, so there were no excuses to flub the handoff.

“Cardstock,” Matt noted, surprised. It hadn’t smelled like any of the usual supply. Decent weight, too, but with a smell that went deeper than ink alone. 

“Fluorescent cardstock,” Karen agreed happily. “That one’s a shade of yellow that would hurt your eyes if it had the chance.” She folded the Bulletin and slid the half-used roll of tape onto her wrist like an oversized bangle. “I’m taking my lunch now. Anyone else up for taping?” 

“I could stretch my legs,” Foggy said, taking the rest of the stack of apparently bright-colored signs that no one with working eyes could miss. “Matt? You in?” 

“I’d probably just get them upside down,” he demurred. “I’ll be here in case we get a call.” 

Neither of them tried to reclaim his flyer. They were laser-printed, he decided as they left, but with different colors of ink. Someone was spending more than necessary to get the message out, someone in Hell’s Kitchen would have made a website, maybe… Matt startled when he realized he was tracing the girl’s name in the still-cooling ink. He had expected a J, not the G. Gemma, like Gemma Galgani. 

When Matt tried to get through the deposition transcript, he thought he could feel the yellow of the paper burning against his arm. 

 

\-- 

 

That night, Claire called the burner phone and said she needed his help. When he made it through her window just nine minutes later, she brought out another fluorescent menace and calmly read him the entire thing, let him pretend that he was only reluctantly convinced, and then pressed a brand-new prepaid phone into his hand. “Make-a-Wish is the only contact in there. I don’t want to interfere with any plans of yours, now, but her building does have a nice little garden on the roof.” 

\-- 

Gemma Carmichael was eight years old. The precinct had nominated her to Make-A-Wish the day that her mother called in to work and said that she’d need more than an afternoon off. Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma was the name of the new monster that was preying on a child, and in the station it quickly became the public enemy of choice. The cops stayed in touch with Jackie when she came in to take the occasional shift, usually covering a weekend, and learned about ketogenic diets and the tricks of cajoling a child through a third trial of a PICC line. The day before Gemma’s wish became a driving force through the neighborhood gossip lines, they learned about hospice for children.

Detective Jackie Carmichael had never liked vigilantes. They muddied the waters and made proper collection of evidence a pipe dream. If the meatheads spent a day in court, they might know about chain of custody when it came to evidence, she’d fume. Occasional confessions were okay but the DA never seemed to do more than plea them out into offensively small sentences. 

Her daughter Gemma didn’t care about proper submission of evidence. She drew pictures of Hell’s Kitchen’s Devil, substituting in red and purple and orange when she wore her black crayon down to nothing.

\-- 

There were four heartbeats on the roof. One was steady and slow, someone who worked hard to keep their body in shape. Two were average, nothing he would easily pick out of a crowd. One was thudding along so quickly it felt like her heartbeat was trying to keep up with the frenetic pace of her words. 

He was crouched just below the top of a fire escape while he scanned again, trying to hear anyone else that might be on the rooftops. He hadn’t heard any other police in the area, but they would have had more than enough time to set up a few plainclothes officers in upper apartments who didn’t have an open radio at their side. 

Matt stood and vaulted onto the roof in one motion, springing off the railing of the fire escape and tucking into a roll. It wasn’t necessary, not with a jump that small, but he heart her heartbeat pick up. He was here to put on a show, after all. 

It was worth it. Gemma actually squealed with happiness, and he could hear her feet scuffing against the concrete when she jumped up and down as he approached. 

He landed neatly on her building’s roof, taking the pose that Foggy had described as a Tony Stark classic, both because it drew attention and kept the hand holding her present from further ruining his sad attempt at wrapping. It wasn’t like he could ask anyone else if it looked right, not with a chance the package would show up in a news article, but it was a gift bag (black, said the bodega owner) with half a pack of tissue paper crinkled inside. 

As it happened, Matt had chosen his pose well, because Gemma charged forward to hug him with enough momentum that she could have hurled herself off the edge. “Whoa!” he cautioned, catching her by instinct and letting his arms settle into place when she didn’t let go. “Hi. Careful with roofs, they have edges.” He felt her nod against his chest. “I guess you’re Gemma.” 

She had short hair in a smooth bob and smelled like bubble gum shampoo and sidewalk chalk. “You came!” she said, cuddling into him with an ease that startled him. He’d never been that comfortable with strangers. 

Gemma’s father was laughing, and the Make-A-Wish volunteer was staying back. Gemma’s mother had lurched forward to grab the girl before she could tumble off the roof and had barely relaxed when he caught Gemma. 

The detective spoke only after taking a pair of deep breaths that did nothing to settle to sudden speed of her heartbeat. “Gemma. If you could please never try to tackle someone off a roof again, please,” Jackie said, prodding her daughter in the shoulder before offering her hand. “Jackie Carmichael. We haven’t met.” 

“Never really planned a name,” he admitted, shaking her hand. “Never planned any of this.” 

Gemma disentangled herself and shifted on her feet, head tilted toward the present. 

“For you,” Matt said, uncomfortable with so many people staring straight at him in good lighting. No one had figured out his identity through blurred stills or the occasional dark surveillance video taken in an alleyway, but he could feel the light of the setting sun on his face and feel the buzz of artificial lighting set around them. 

Jackie stared at him while Gemma tried to untangle the mess of tissue paper that had been compressed several times during his roundabout trip to the rooftop. “There are a lot of things I thought I’d say if I ever met you,” the detective said, arms crossed over her chest. “Primarily about how investigations centered on cleaning up your mess are annoying.” 

Before Matt could respond to that, Gemma made another high-pitched sound of happiness that made him flinch. He’d forgotten that children were so loud.

Jackie sounded marginally more pleased with him, though. “Go show your dad,” she encouraged, ruffling Gemma’s hair and spreading the scent of bubble gum. Gemma darted off with a loud ‘thank you’ to run across the rooftop. 

“I’ve heard a lot about the pictures that she drew,” he said, feeling even more out of place just faced with Jackie. “It seemed like something she could use.” He also would be cutting back on groceries for the week but it felt fitting. He’d had a set of Prismacolor markers like that once for Christmas. His dad must have scrounged to afford them, too. 

“Do not make me like you,” Jackie warned. “I am not going to be the next Mahoney.” 

“Of course not, ma’am,” Matt agreed, smiling. “I understand Gemma invited me to a tea party?” 

Jackie tried to hold it back, but he didn’t blame her for the laughter that escaped. “That she did,” Jackie agreed, still giggling. “Here, let me hold your chair for you. They tend to tip over when adults try to sit in them but she insisted.” 

Matt was pretty sure the chair was too small for Gemma, let alone him, but the two of them sat at the tiny plastic table and ate cake and ice cream while Gemma told him about Mr. Fish the goldfish, her second grade teacher Mr. Berger, and every single thing she was going to draw with her new markers. 

It was fully dark by the time she ran out of words. For once, no sirens had interrupted, and he hadn’t heard anyone cry out for help. He shook hands with Jeremiah and the Make-A-Wish volunteer and let Gemma tug him down for another hug. When she pulled away, promising that she would leave a picture on the roof for him after she colored with her new markers, Jackie was looking between the two of them. 

“You’re good with kids,” she said, voice quiet. 

“I started this to protect them,” he responded in kind. “Well, one of them in particular, but a lot of people need help.” 

“That’s what Anna said!” Gemma chirped, whirling back from where she had been describing her tea party to her father as if he hadn’t been sitting fifteen feet away the whole time. “She said that she used to be scared to go to bed, but then the man in the black mask helped her. Anna’s mommy said that it’s because you scare away the monsters under the bed, so I thought if you scared the monsters so people don’t fight them, maybe you could scare cancer, too.” 

“Would you draw that for me, Gemma?” Matt asked. “I haven’t fought cancer before, you can show me how it’s done.” 

“Perhaps that could be our release for the Foundation?” Johnny suggested quietly. “Pending Miss Gemma’s approval, of course, but it seems like a polite way to convince the neighborhood that her wish was fulfilled.” 

“I like that,” Gemma said thoughtfully, head tilted up to look at Matt. “Then you can see even if its rainy or windy, and I won’t have to worry that the picture got lost. But the black is kind of boring, Mr. Devil, so I think I’ll pick other colors instead. Something cooler.” 

“Tomorrow,” Jackie interrupted, dropping her left hand onto the child’s shoulder. “You’re already up past bedtime, missy, and you can take all the time you want tomorrow to draw your picture.” 

“Good night, Gemma,” Matt said. “It was my pleasure to meet you.” At least he knew that he could convince Foggy to describe the picture for him. Maybe he could get Karen and Claire’s takes, too. 

“Good night, Mr. Devil! Thank you for coming.” 

Jackie shifted her weight and reached forward over Gemma, holding out her right hand. He could hear a clinking bracelet on her wrist as he reached to shake her hand. “Try to not completely spoil the evidence sometime,” she advised reluctantly. “Quite a few guns on the street are illegal, we try to clean those up. Plus it makes the district attorney’s day if they get to add a few charges.” 

“I’ll do my best, detective.” 

There wasn’t much else to say after that, so he nodded to the group, stepped back, and maybe was even showier before he vanished down a fire escape. 

\-- 

Most of the merry band of nuisances that had been wallpapering Hell’s Kitchen in flyers bought the commemorative Make-A-Wish t-shirt decorated with Gemma’s drawings of a man in a red (or purple, or orange, or black) suit kicking and punching little blobs of cancer. 

Karen bought two. So did Claire. Foggy pretended that he didn’t own one and acted as if he wasn’t pestering Karen for stories about the Masked Man. Captain America wore one while he was jogging (sprinting by anyone else’s pacing) in Central Park and started a brief national trend that increased the National Cancer Institute’s funding for pediatric cancers. 

Matt had a t-shirt that lived boldly in the drawer with his pajamas. With the way that the entire neighborhood had come together, there was nothing odd about a blind lawyer joining Team Gemma in wanting to punch cancer into submission.


End file.
